


lover when you see that glare, think of it as my despair

by swimthewholeriogrande



Series: Hurt Jake Peralta [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood, F/M, Hurt Jake Peralta, Hurt No Comfort, References to Drugs, Shock, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-03-29 09:24:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimthewholeriogrande/pseuds/swimthewholeriogrande
Summary: Jake misses a single second of time, and then loses time completely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm starting a Jake whump-shots series because I have TOO MANY scenarios in my head! 
> 
> Please comment suggestions below, thanks for reading! 
> 
> Title from Chant from Hadestown

Jake's seen so many of these kids come through here that he's lost count. 

They all have the same hungry, empty look in their eyes; he can see the scars of the nasty night-time New York underbelly in their heads, on their hands, in the needle points in their elbows. It's sometimes hard to stay professional when they cry, or resemble people he knows, or even remind him of himself - one time a teenager mentioned Die Hard in some dull joke he's long since forgotten and Jake had had to swallow hard, try not to think _this life could so easily have taken any of us_ , and finish typing up the arrest report for possession with intent to sell. 

He never sees them again after they get put in the holding cell, then transferred somewhere upstate for trial. They stick with him like ghosts, skinny hungry kids with something to prove and a hundred voices in their ears pushing them the wrong ways. 

But as much as Jake feels for them, sometimes they're too angry and cagey and jagged for him to treat them the way he wishes he could. It's a Friday night when he gets saddled with typing up the report for some kid that doesn't look a day over 20 for aggravated assault, and the cuffs on the perp's hands look awfully tight but Jake doesn't trust him enough to loosen them. His eyes are too wide, too wild, and Jake is pretty sure the kid is on something but he just wants to finish the report and get him somewhere to sit down. 

It's not until there's a knife at his throat that Jake thinks he maybe should have been paying more attention. 

He has no idea how it happens; one second he's typing and the next he's been hauled around with the manic strength only a high can provide, the flickknife someone had missed in a hoody pocket pressed so close to his neck that it's slipped between two rings of cartilage, and chaos erupts. Every gun in the room is drawn, everyone shouts a warning, and Jake catches Rosa's eye, the cold fury burning in her gaze.

_This isn't great,_ Jake thinks.

"Let go of the detective, Scott." Terry says, his voice calm and even, but his hand white-knuckled on his gun. "Don't do something you'll regret."

Jake can smell Scott sweating, can feel his ribcage rising and falling fast against his back. He wants to speak or plead for his life, but his tongue is heavy and frozen because it would be so stupid to die at his fucking desk, not even in the field, to get killed on the filthy bullpen floor as the printer shudders and coughs in the background. It would be so stupid to die a floor above Amy and not beside her in his old age after a long happy life.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Jake closes his eyes briefly, and when he swallows, the blade presses against his skin. Scott hasn't even said anything yet, and that's maybe the worst part, because if he won't speak then Terry can't bargain with him and that means -

He doesn't even realise when it happens. He just sees everyone else rush forwards, sees Rosa drop her gun - and Rosa never drops her gun. Scott is ripped away from him and Jake's shirt is wet, soaking through, but he doesn't feel anything so he doesn't know why everyone is panicking.

Then he tries to suck in a breath and chokes on blood, rising up his throat, greasing the inside of his mouth until it dribbles against his chin. He tries to touch his neck and someone grabs his hand before he can, supporting him under his armpits, holding him when suddenly his knees give out.

"Peralta, look at me!"

Jake blinks. He's leaning against a broad chest, probably Terry's, and Rosa is in front of him. Someone is pressing a wad of towels or shirts or something to his throat but he still doesn't really know why, because he can't feel a thing. His teeth feel slick, pennies and iron on his tongue.

Someone is gingerly picking up the flickknife; it's dripping scarlet, but Jake can't connect it and the wet, raw sensation on his neck. Rosa's face is shifting, impermanent, steam on glass, and he can't say a word.

Jake sees Amy burst out of the elevator like an avenging angel, and then he sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

Amy thinks her husband is the one absolutely most beautiful thing. 

She thinks this all the time; when he's in his dress uniform, or one of his hoodys, or his pyjamas when they're getting into bed after a long day. It doesn't take anything but the sight of Jake increase her heart rate - she feels so lucky, and so in awe, and so in love, every single time she sees him. 

But then she steps into the bullpen and he is a fish in a red ocean, so much blood on the floor and all over him that it looks like someone has started to repaint the ground, and Rosa is holding a wad of scarlet material to his throat that Amy is sure used to be white. She stops dead for a brief second; he catches her eye and then his head lolls and Amy thinks, very distantly, _I just watched my husband die right in front of me._

The cry that rips out of her is feral; she vaults over the gate and runs to him, the ground slippery, and when she falls to her knees at his side it soaks through her uniform, stains her knees. 

"No, no, no," she can hear herself saying, "no, Jake, no, Rosa, what -"

"Some little fucker knifed him." Rosa's face is wild; she doesn't look at Amy, just keeps holding the towel tight against Jake's neck. "Ambulance will be here in a minute."

Amy fumbles for Jake's wrist and feels the lightest approximation of a pulse. His face is white, draining, and the gash in his throat when the towel shifts is raw and smiling. She is trying to figure out how deep it goes, but it's too hard to tell because there is so much blood -

"Hey. Amy. Amy, breathe." Someone's hand rubs her back and Amy is suddenly aware that she's gasping for breath, but when they try and lead her away from Jake she claws at them. How could she leave him? How could she ever leave him?

Jake's eyes open suddenly, barely, cross-eyed. His jaw drops open for a moment; the inside of his mouth is scarlet. Amy reaches out and touches his chest and his dazed gaze rests on her; she grabs his hand tight when he lifts it weakly to touch his throat.

"No, don't do that," she chokes out, "you're okay, Jake, it's alright. I'm here. You're okay."

His tongue lolls, and his hand drops, and his heart stops under her fingers.

-

It takes the paramedics twenty minutes and four pints of blood to get Jake back, and even then when Amy finally gets to see him he's porcelain white and weak as a kitten. The bandage around his neck is clean, but they've been changing it often, and Amy knows that it took some time to stop the bleeding - time that Jake didn't have, almost didn't get back.

But he's lucky; that's what they keep telling Amy. He's lucky that the knife cut a minor artery and not his jugular, he's lucky that the 99 applied pressure straight away, and he's lucky that the ambulance got there within five minutes. He's lucky that he didn't die on the precinct floor, or in the ambulance, or on the table when they fought to close the gash.

And she is lucky too, Amy thinks, even as she sits at his bedside with her whole uniform patterned with his blood. She is lucky that the second Jake's heart stopped, her own didn't follow.

When he wakes up, it will surely take weeks before he can speak; the cut was quick and messy but deep, and the blade - now sitting in an evidence locker - was wickedly sharp. It's going to be an extremely painful and quiet recovery - when he wakes up, that is.

Right now he's just sleeping, blissfully unaware of what's to come. So Amy sits and counts her blessings, and counts every beat of his pulse where she holds his hand, and prays - prays to anyone that's listening - that he will be okay.


End file.
